From Grace of God
by Harukami
Summary: Crowley had never meant to fall, after all. He'd just hung with the wrong crowd.


"From Grace of God" - by Harukami  
  
Crowley remembered falling.  
  
He used to laughingly refer to it as sauntering downwards rather than falling. He had never meant to fall, after all. He joined no rebellion, he took up no arms, he'd spilled no blood. Then.  
  
All he'd done was shine up a pretty fruit and offer it to a hungry woman. Or so he could say.  
  
It hadn't been his idea. They'd put him up to it. All he'd done was go along with it.  
  
Or so he could believe.  
  
It didn't matter, anyway. In the end, it didn't even matter.  
  
/Streaming, his shoulder-length hair streaming was caught in a hot wind while ashes blew around him, thick in his throat. It tasted like grit and mortality, grit and mortality./  
  
Indescretion, that was all. The tragic story of youth everywhere. Not guilty, your honour, I was under the influence of evil.  
  
/And then the fires began, in His rage, lashing out. They were in a cage. His Beautiful Kingdom that he'd planned was just a cage. A burning cage as He screamed in wrath against God. Nobody dared speak, take up voice against him. Perhaps they couldn't talk, ashes thick in their throats. A miserable group, all of them, ragged, torn, bleeding, singed. Standing around uncertainly. Having lost it all. Where could any of them go from there? And their leader, their beautiful son of fire, screaming his voice bloody with anger and loss. And what could any of them do, where could any of them go?/  
  
And, really, whose fault was it? Crowley certainly wasn't stupid enough to put two humans with free will in a kitchen, say "You can have any of the pies in this kitchen. Go ahead, enjoy 'em. Just don't take THAT one, whatever you do," and then LEAVE them there. God should have known humans better than that. God MUST have known humans better than that. So whose fault was it?  
  
/And finally one of the great former archangels ventured, in a cracked, uncertain voice, 'What now?' and He turned and screamed at them too, 'I don't care! I don't care!'. And again, silence. They'd put their trust in Him. And now what? Were they all to live a life of egotism and self-serving?/  
  
But no, it was Adam's fault and Eve's fault and his own fault. Lumped in with the rest of them. Unlike Satanists, no sympathy for cries of "The Devil made me do it".  
  
No sympathy, except from the Angel of the East Gate. Crowley could see sympathy in the Angel's eyes as he was cast out the gates. He hated it. Wanted to rip those sympathetic eyes from the Angel's face. To claw that tiny, sad smile from its lips.  
  
/Hierarchy and betrayal. All they'd ever live with again was with Heaven's rejects. There was nothing of success for them any more. Just rejection, failure. They made a success out of failure. Success in a world dominated by the burning fires of suffering and scented with the ash of despair. Not humanity's suffering and despair. Just suffering and despair. Some scars healed. Some wouldn't ever heal. The ash affected their voices after a time. Even had they wished, none of them could ever sing hosannas again. They would hiss or cackle or buzz their words, unable to clean their throats from the suffocating ash of loss./  
  
It had been later when he'd met the Angel again.  
  
/"Ssshirking your duty, Angel?"  
  
"I lost my sword. Pity, that. Quite a long time ago, too, just after the Rebellion. I suppose that somebody else must serve that duty. What are you going to do about the Inquisition?"/  
  
He was bad luck, he was failure made success. He always knew he should stop it then. Stop it right then before anything could go wrong.  
  
/"Why did you do it?"  
  
"For the Hell of it."  
  
"Crowley."  
  
"Really." He'd never meant to fall. /  
  
He hadn't. It had snuck up on him. Just sympathised with the dissention at first, really. It must be easy to sympathise with something you are slowly becoming. Even if you don't know you're becoming it.  
  
/"I can't believe that."  
  
"Then dissssbelieve it, Angel."/  
  
Aziraphale rolled over, a small, sleepy smile on his face, and snuggled up to Crowley as if he were some kind of giagantic teddy bear rather than an ancient demon.  
  
Crowley lay still and held his breath. Some days he wanted to be Aziraphale, though he would never admit it to anyone. Most days, he wanted to be with Aziraphale. Rarely, but sometimes, he wanted to avoid Aziraphale forever.  
  
"I'm bad luck," he whispered into Aziraphale's ear.  
  
"Mm," Aziraphale murmured, and slept peacefully. 


End file.
